


Poison

by Camorra



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Venom AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2019-10-27 19:17:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17772671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camorra/pseuds/Camorra
Summary: the line between poison and medicine is a fine one.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to yu for looking it over. and fixing things. and being a co-conspirator.

No one really mentions the health hazards of becoming an informant _before_ you take the job. And it’s not like it comes with health insurance, either.

Sure, there’s the stabbings, and the potential gunshots and beatdowns. The stress. Probably radiation from all the phones and computers all the damn time. And if you’re really careless, arson and its associated risks.

But the real occupational hazard?

Cigarette smoke.

Just about every one of his clients and contacts smoke like fog machines. He’s considered adding a gas mask to his outfit, just to avoid lung cancer before he hits thirty and have to drag around an oxygen tank. Would throw off the entire look, honestly, and it’d just be dead weight if he has to speed off on foot.

You would think the mogul of one of the world’s largest pharmaceuticals would know better, but he’s puffing on his cigarette like it’s providing the oxygen in the room instead of eating it. Maybe there’s some secret anti-cancer medication he knows about that the public doesn’t. Maybe he’s unaware of the irony.

“This is some interesting information,” Sakuma says, like Izaya’s not the one that wrote the dossier in his hands.

“Indeed,” Izaya says, checking his nails. The right ring finger nail is a tad longer than the others. But he broke his last file and hasn’t had a chance to swipe Shiki’s yet. He’s pretty sure Shiki’s onto him, anyway, probably won’t be able to find anymore for easy pickings. Might even have to go buy his own.

“If you can prove it’s true, of course,” Sakuma finishes triumphantly, folding his hands in front of him. Izaya looks up from his nails, putting on his best ‘I’m-sure-I-misheard-you’ face. He learned it from Shiki. He’s seen some subordinates cry, a couple faint, and one even pissed himself out of fear. Sakuma just looks mildly taken aback. “I’ll need you to list your sources.”

He can’t decide if Sakuma’s incredibly stupid or incredibly average. Perhaps somewhere in the middle. Of course he can’t just hand over his sources in the pharmaceutical industry, can’t risk having them purged or poached. Quite frankly, they’re worth more than any amount of money. Watching them struggle to come to terms with their morality is just so delicious.

“Ah, Sakuma,” Izaya says in his customer service voice. He didn’t need to learn this one from Shiki, this sort of silky-smooth poison comes naturally. “I’m afraid I don’t really much care whether you believe me or not.”

Sakuma stares at him.

Izaya looks levelly back and continues to examine his nails. Men in power have a hard time with the word ‘no,’ it’ll take him awhile.

“I paid you _millions_ for this information,” Sakuma says. Then seems to comprehend what he says. Then surprise quickly morphs to anger, Sakuma starting to turn an interesting shade of red. “I think for that price—”

“That I do what’s agreed on and provide you with information?” Izaya says, heaving to his feet. “Hmm, yes. Which I did, no? What you do with it is up to you. Believe it, don’t.” Izaya shrugs. “I would never dream of taking that choice away from you. It’s what makes you human, and therefore interesting. Nothing else about you is.”

Sakuma splutters, his face going redder. Perhaps Izaya should be concerned. He is a smoker after all, perhaps he’s having a heart attack.

No, Izaya decides, as he throws open the office door. Just a fit of incomprehension.

“You’ll never get another job!” Sakuma growls as the door swings shut.

Which is what a few of his clients have said to him. Perhaps if he wasn’t the top and most successful informant in the city, he’d sweat a little.

No, he wouldn’t. If anything, compiling information on Sakuma revealed that even his colleagues thought he was a joke, doomed to fail at the hands of his Superman Project.

Honestly. Combining humans with something you found on a space rock? If aliens existed, they probably would have shown up in Ikebukuro by now, the way that city attracts freaks and oddities of all shades.

And really, he didn’t get into this game for the power or the money, though at this point it started to generate itself. His reputation is such that it absorbs hits and grows.

So it’s without fear that Izaya waltzes into a lobby so white and shiny that it would probably send Shiki careening into a breakdown just at the very thought of trying to keep it clean.

Maybe he should take a picture.

But just as he does, an ear-splitting shriek pierces the air, just about shattering Izaya’s eardrums and anyone else’s in a five mile radius. A moment later, red lights flash in a staccato accompaniment.

Unexpected, but not surprising. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s had to flee an office building in broad daylight. Too bad he’s so close to the stairs, he would have loved an opportunity to scale the building.

Ah, well.

His foot clings to the floor in a way that would have Shiki frowning in displeasure and making someone cry so they could scrub the floor with their tears, but it’s only a few steps and he’s sliding down the rail of the staircase like it’s a slide. And it is, really. If you’re not overly concerned with ‘decorum’ or ‘acting like an adult’ or ‘being in public.’

From there it’s a straight shot out the front door, and a merry skip to the outside world, where Sakuma Pharmaceutical security grunts have no power and he can hide behind Shiki’s pant leg like an obnoxious child with a doting parent.

Oh, no. Bad analogy. Shiki’s not like a parent at all. Well, maybe a little. Izaya’s not allowed to do the shopping anymore since he came home from the store with only two heads of lettuce and coffee filters.

He was even less impressed with Izaya’s Dishes Free Salad Technique.

Which was very unfair, in his opinion, since less dishes means less time wasted _washing_ them and more time fucking or cuddling or reading or what ever that evening’s activity is.

Izaya shuffles down into the subway. It’s fuller than he thought it would be, packed with tired-looking men and women in nearly identical suits with nearly identical blank expressions.

One of the fast food places is doing a brisk business and the scent of fried food both turns his stomach and makes it growl.

Speaking of food, he is rather hungry. Odd, he ate….

Oh, is that the time? That’s about eight hours, isn’t it? Ah, well, time does fly when you’re having fun, ne?

It’s just because Shiki’s flat is closer that he hops on the northbound train instead of the southbound. It’s only three stops to Shiki’s as opposed to the fifteen to his, far quicker. Suppose that’s the price one pays for being in the trendy part of the city with interesting people instead of the respectable cookie-cutter one filled with people trying their hardest to keep their private business tucked neatly into the closet.

But the train just reaffirms his decision. Usually the smell isn’t too bad. There’s an unavoidable smell that comes from too many humans in such a small space. It’s nothing awful, but it is something that makes itself be known as time wears on. But today it’s a hundred times worse, a thousand. It reeks like a hundred gym lockers, like everyone walked through a puddle of piss before stepping into the train.

And that’s before the perfume hits. The fake roses and lilacs and spices and lavender and sweet pea. And powder and the acidic base of all of it. And the shampoos that smell like coconuts and strawberries and pineapple and mint. And the leather they wear and paper they carry, and the coffee they’ve spilled. His head’s spinning by the time he stumbles out at his stop, dashing up the stairs and out onto the streets.

Not that it’s much better, per se. Shiki’s apartment building is in one of the quieter parts, but it’s still a city. There’s still the smell of car exhaust and oil, people and wet pavement and the smells of spices and cooking meat.

And Izaya’s stomach, it feels _empty_ and like he’s going to throw up at the same time. Like there’s a delicious dinner in front of him someone smeared with dogshit.

But he’s so _hungry._

Ah, but Shiki’s good at feeding him. Usually cooks something or makes food appear at the door. And Shiki’s been better at stocking his fridge, he likes to complain that if he knew how much getting Izaya a key would cost him, he would have thought twice. But Izaya never asked for the fridge and pantry to become overflowing bounties, Shiki did it of his own free will. Used to be nothing but a quart of creamer and some yogurt wilting in the fridge. But now it’s almost an entire section of the grocery store. Fruits and vegetables of all shapes and colors parade in and out, there’s a whole drawer full of cucumbers for Izaya’s munching pleasure.

They are _absolutely not_ to be used for any other pleasure, no matter their shape and how funny it might be.

Izaya rubs his wrist absently as his ass stings.

Lesson broadcast and received.

But somehow, a cucumber doesn’t sound appealing going into its proper orifice, and he waltzes out of the elevator on the forty-ninth floor feeling vaguely restless and unsatisfied.

Shiki’s key is heavy, because Shiki’s lock is heavy and deceptively simple on the outside. Izaya knows. Once, many, many months ago, he spent forty-five minutes picking at it before Shiki took pity and let him in. Shiki gave him a key weeks later, long enough to be completely unrelated, though he complained of damages to his lock.

Shiki’s door is equally heavy and deceptively simple, and Izaya is willing to bet that it’s the only one like it in the entire building and it swings open lightly on silent hinges.

Shiki’s apartment smells like brewing coffee and faintly of cigarettes, and his shoes wait patiently by the door, which means that not only is Shiki home, but that he’s had a rough day. Rougher. Perhaps not even entirely over.

Shiki doesn’t like the way cigarettes seep into furniture and stay and sour. He avoids it at all costs. A cigarette after sex is a mark of victory in Izaya’s books, for all it’s something he tries to avoid. A cigarette in the living room is a lit danger sign, blazing and flashing.

Izaya pads quietly into the living room. Shiki’s standing in the middle of it, staring out the windows. His suit jacket is gone, and his sleeves are pushed up to reveal tattoo’d forearms. A cigarette dangles from his lips and his phone is cradled between his shoulder and his ear.

The man on the other end is loud enough that it’s a buzz even when Izaya’s far away and audible as Izaya presses against Shiki’s back and slides his arms around.

Izaya pushes close enough that his mouth is right at Shiki’s ear, prepping for a sneak attack.

“Of course, sir,” Shiki says as he uses two fingers to catch Izaya’s tongue before it can reach his ear.

Drats.

Izaya wiggles his tongue in vain, but Shiki is wise to his tricks and keeps Izaya’s tongue captive.

“Of course, sir,” Shiki says, more smoothly than before.

But his hand being occupied just leaves him open to more… _forward_ tactics.

Izaya deftly reaches towards the front of Shiki’s pants and is rewarded with a sharp exhale through the nose.

Izaya’s fingers are dexterous but Shiki’s mask is iron, and his voice doesn’t even waver as he reassures the client, “we will do everything in our power to ensure the anonymity of our client, as is standard practice.”

Shiki acts like he’s not bared for anyone who looks through the window to see, like Izaya hasn’t had him panting and made his eyes burn with less.

Shiki ends his call like he has all the time in the world, like he doesn’t have Izaya pinned to the couch a half second after his phone hit the floor.

“Hello,” Izaya says, stretching underneath Shiki like he’s just woken up. “I’m hungry.”

“You certainly seemed to be,” Shiki says, amusement clear, head dipping down.

“No, I’m physically hungry,” Izaya says, his stomach punctuating this with a loud growl. Even though, this close, Shiki is the most delicious thing that he’s smelled the whole way home. “The innocent kind of hunger.”

Errr. Shiki’s apartment. Not home. He lives somewhere else.

Shiki does not let him up, doesn’t even pause what he’s doing. “What did you want for dinner?”

Izaya’s fingers might be deft, but Shiki’s are clever and long and Izaya’s mask is more porcelain than iron and cracks easily and beautifully.

But he’ll be damned if that stops him. “Meat,” he says. “Raw.” And it sounds no less dirty for being true.

“That can be arranged,” Shiki says, smirk clear and wicked.

And he’s as good as his word.

“I didn’t think you particularly cared for beef,” Shiki says, watching Izaya pick slices of meat off the plate.

Izaya shrugs. “It’s fine, what really matters is the preparation.”

“Is that right?”

“There’s so much you can tell from how someone prepares food. If it’s salty, sweet, bitter. How much spice they use. A hundred little things that reveal personality and taste.”

Shiki gestures at where his food sizzles on the barbecue. “What does this reveal about me?”

Hard question.

Izaya taps a finger to his lips, considering Shiki’s sizzling meat, his clean plate and how Shiki carefully builds small packets of meat and kimchi and tofu wrappers and eats in clean little bites.

And how he took Izaya to korean barbecue so he could have his choice of raw meats even though he hates how the grease splatters and gets all over him and how his suit will smell of cooking meat for the next three washes.

And how even though Shiki doesn’t eat much, he’ll insist on eating every scrap of what they ordered, and most of it will go to Izaya, and Shiki will pick up the bill.

Izaya doesn’t mention any of this.

“Well,” Izaya says, “you’re precise about how you cook your meat. You have a set time limit. You’re careful, ne? You eat every bite the exact same way. You have a routine you don’t like to deviate from.”

Shiki clicks his chopsticks. “Perhaps I’ve experimented and simply know what I like.”

“Perhaps,” Izaya admits.

“What does your style say about you?”

Izaya pauses with an uncooked piece of plain meat halfway to his lips. He’s starving, and something in him sits uncomfortably, but it’s shoved roughly away before he can think about it too much. He smiles, and something in Shiki’s eyes starts to burn again. “It means I’m _hungry._ ”

 

Shiki sleeps curled into a small ball on the edge of the bed.

Izaya sleeps curled around him, like a mother cat around a kitten. Except, in their case, it’s more like a small cat desperately trying to wrap around a doberman.

Izaya knows the patterns of Shiki’s shoulders. They’re slightly different for all the lines are almost symmetrical.

That’s a lie. Izaya knows all Shiki’s patterns. He knows the way tattoos curl down around his back to his butt and further. How they cascade down Shiki’s arms to stop short at his wrists. The way the ink tumbles down Shiki’s chest to his stomach.

He knows how Shiki breathes when he’s sleeping. Deep breathes, quiet. Steady.

It’s not often that Izaya wakes up before Shiki.

It makes him feel uncomfortable and restless the longer he lies, hand rising and falling as Shiki breathes.

It’s about five minutes before he has to slither out, the itch under his skin too much, the places where it touches Shiki’s too warm and too sticky.

He’s out the door before Shiki manages to haul himself out of bed.

 

He regrets leaving before he even hits his office.

His skin fits all wrong, he’s far too hot and everything is far too close and the smell.

Oh, god, the _smell._

The woman next to him, shooting glances like he’s going to break, smells like sour milk and sweat and powder and blood.

The student sitting next to her, engrossed in his handheld, smells like sweat and semen and more sweat and body odor and hair gel and deodorant and a little like oatmeal and meat.

Underneath it all, he smells like blood and meat. They all do.

And it’s _delicious._

His stomach grumbles and his mouth grows moist. He can taste the meat from last night, juicy and raw.

Izaya gets off seven stops before he’s supposed to, and if he was smart, he’d recognize that it’s probably the worst place that he could have gotten off.

But his eyes are swimming and his skin itches and he’s sweating through his shirt and the only thought he has in his head is to get away from the press of people. His lovely, beautiful disgusting humans before he does something he regrets.

But he lives in Tokyo and it’s rush hour and there’s no place without people. He ends up stumbling into an alley between two buildings, sliding down the wall to sit.

It barely makes things better.

He can still smell the crush of humanity mere meters from where he sits. He can also imagine how biting in would taste across his tongue, how blood would pool in his mouth and the flesh would give under his teeth and the resistance it would give as he tore it out.

But it’s dimmer now. More because of the reek of trash nearby than any real restraint.

His skin is far too tight. He can feel where his fingers touch and he hates it. He can feel where his hair pricks his skin and he hates it. He can feel where his clothes touch his skin and it feels like chafing and he hates it. He can feel where sweat is beading on his forehead and each beat of his heart and the way last night’s dinner is traveling through his guts, the slow contracting of muscles that pushes the food through.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there. Maybe a few minutes, maybe hours. Maybe days.

Probably not days, because he doesn’t feel cold.

But he smells something on the wind that isn’t trash-garbage-sewer, and some lingering sense of self-preservation kicks in and he cranes his head up, winching his eyes open even though the light _hurts._

It’s Shizuo and his stupid posse of too-loyal friends. The dark-haired one. Tom. A loan shark without the real drive to do it. His uncle owns the business, or something like that, or Izaya’s sure he wouldn’t have even considered the position. Far too soft.

The blonde one. Vorona. Who knows why she does what she does? Izaya half played with the idea that she’s in love, but dismissed it early for obvious reasons. But every time he sees them, he’s forced to reconsider.

Ah, but perhaps she’s just using him? There’s no other real reason for her to cling so tightly. That makes sense. That always makes sense.

But there’s hardly anytime to contemplate Shizuo’s love life, because if he’s seen Shizuo—

_“Izzz-aaaaaa-yaaaaaa!”_

Then Shizuo’s certainly seen him.

And he’s running. There’s no other option, really, when it comes to dear Shizu-chan.

And even though it feels like he’s probably dying of some contagion he got from eating raw meat like an idiot, it’s easier than ever to run.

Springing from street to roof doesn’t feel like it’s a great effort, it feels like he was a spring, always meant to make that leap. His lungs don’t burn with the effort of keeping ahead of an inhuman monster, his breathing is no more labored than before.

It feels fantastic—

Until he suddenly can’t breath through the band on his neck.

Simon grabs him by the collar, like he weighs no more than a kitten. It takes him right back to highschool days, when he was nothing but an upstart.

“No fighting,” Simon says, reproachfully. “Not good. Fighting because hungry, bad energies.”

“Like _fuck_ I am,” Shizuo howls, because he never learns. “That bastard’s the one who _started_ it.”

“Am I?” Izaya drawls, as they’re dragged back into Simon’s shop. “I seem to remember that you attacked me, no? Perhaps it’s your, shall we say, primal instincts that are to blame?”

Shizuo hisses and struggles, but Simon is an old hand and he doesn’t get far.

It’s humbling, the way they’re thrown onto stools near the sushi bar. No matter how far he might climb, how many faces he laughs in, he’ll still be the punk Simon can sling around like a rag doll. Simon pops up on the other side, slicing and dicing.

A plate of sashimi appears at Izaya’s elbow in almost no time, and even though it’s one of the more expensive pieces on the menu, his bill will be higher.

It takes everything Izaya has to use his chopsticks and not just pick it up with his bare hands and shovel it down his throat.

But as soon as it hits his tongue, it’s like the bottom of his stomach has dropped out. He’s never been this hungry before in his life, like his liver might be the next casualty if he doesn’t feed the beast.

“More.”

Simon has the next plate at his elbow before he’s entirely finished with the first, and Izaya does leave the chopsticks behind this time, scooping the raw fish up with his fingers. It’s sticky and chilled and it slides right down his throat.

“Do you have anything… _rawer?”_ Izaya asks, licking his fingers.

Simon nods his head knowingly. “Ah, yes. For special customers. But very expensive, so—”

“Give it to me.”

The fish is still moving.

He doesn’t care.

The fish still has eyes.

He eats them.

It’s when he’s surrounded by plates and Simon is shaking his head saying _no more, no more_ that Izaya finally stops. The word stops spinning. He doesn’t feel full, not by any means, but he doesn’t feel the world-consuming hunger he felt a moment ago.

“Thank you, Simon, it was delicious. As always.”

Simon doesn’t even blink. “I’ll bring you check, yes?”

“No need,” Izaya says, sliding his credit card out of his wallet. “Just charge the amount. I have the feeling it’s nothing I want to see, ne?”

“Yes, good. Good,” Simon says, nodding and whisking his credit card away to parts unknown. Izaya tries to remember the credit limit and fails. Ah, he can take it. Probably.

“What the fuck was _that?”_

Izaya turns and Shizuo’s still there, the broken remains of chopsticks next to his untouched plate of sushi.

Surprise and confusion are rapidly giving away to anger as Izaya watches, because the darling beast hates anything he doesn’t understand and Izaya is the example, not the exception.

“What’s what, Shizu-chan? I’ll help you understand, if I can. But I’m not sure I can dumb down _everything_ for you. Might be too much, even for me.”

‘This _bullshit,_ what’s the idea, huh?” Shizuo’s half standing now, his fists are curled into Izaya’s shirt and he’s near enough Izaya can smell the fish on his breath.“What the fuck are you trying to accomplish?”

Shizuo’s standing too close. And even though Izaya just ate, he’s reminded of how _fantastic_ humans smell under all of their fake perfumes. But this one’s not human, is it? It’s a monster and perhaps just a nibble--

Shizuo shakes him and he’s nothing but a rag doll in the hands of a clumsy child and Izaya’s brain rattles against his skull.

And Shizuo’s arm is pulling back and distantly Izaya notes that that’s not good. At this distance, standing still, he’s not likely to survive. And Shizuo smells like fish and sweat and like cheap tobacco and everything’s too warm and his skin stretches all wrong. His face doesn’t fit and his teeth are far too big for his mouth and his bones are remolded and wrong.

He snaps back into himself like a rubber band, with a sting and a flinch and far more violently than he thinks he should.

But then he’s free and Shizuo’s on the floor and he gets to watch the same thing all over again. Fear to confusion to anger.

But he doesn’t stick around to see what the results are.

“Fuck, you _flea!”_

It’d be _logical_ to go home.

It’d be smart to go home to his small apartment that only two people know the location of because he’s not dumb enough to live out of his office. It has a large yellow pikachu in the corner that he got as a joke and that Shiki fucked him on once and he hasn’t been able to get the smell of strawberry lube out of since. And he’ll curl into his sheet on the softest bed money can buy and sleep until he doesn’t feel like an invader in his own skin.

He doesn’t do that.

Instead, he walks until he’s in front of an art gallery that doesn’t sell art, where the only pictures are the ones that are drummed into skin.

The grunt at the front desk tries to stop him, but he doesn’t try that hard because he’s easy to shove away. But he must call Shiki because he bustles out of his office, takes one look at Izaya, and steers him in, shutting the door firmly behind them.

Shiki’s hands are cool on his skin.

“You’re running quite the fever,” Shiki says, his voice echoing oddly in Izaya’s ears. There’s sharp tugs on his jacket and Izaya lets him take it off. It doesn’t make him feel any cooler, just more naked.

“‘M fine,” Izaya mumbles.

“I’m sure you will be,” Shiki says, carefully touching Izaya’s forehead. “I’m going to call a doctor.”

“No,” Izaya says, the word feeling like it’s being punched out of him. “No.”

There’s a pause. “Alright.” Cool fingers brush hair behind his ear, and it’s really not his fault that he turns into Shiki’s hand. He just smells so good and so comforting. Like tobacco and faintly of cologne and a little detergent. A thumb plays over his lips. “But if your fever hasn’t broken by tomorrow morning, I’m calling.”

Izaya’s too far gone to do anything but hum a sort of agreement.

“Lay down, won’t you? I’ll call a car to come around.”

Izaya remembers this couch. Like the pikachu in his apartment, it smells of lube. But unlike the pikachu, he’s slept here before. Often enough that Shiki pulls a small pillow out from his file cabinet. The first time he saw it, warning bells started to clang like an intruder alert but that’s wrong. It doesn’t mean Shiki’s close. Not really. Just means Izaya’s got him wrapped around his little finger, and that’s fine.

That’s fine.

Izaya doesn’t remember the ride home.

He doesn’t remember the trip through the elevator or when Shiki changes him from his jeans and shirt into a loose-fitting pair of pajama pants and tucks him into bed.

But he knows he must, because Izaya opens his eyes and he’s in Shiki’s room, the muted gray-whites and creams a dead give away.

Through the night, there’s a parade of cool, sweet-smelling things across his forehead. Some of them smell like detergent and some smell strongly of coffee and nicotine.

But by morning, things smell equally of detergent and coffee.

Izaya rolls over and snuggles into Shiki’s chest, buttons of Shiki’s dress shirt pressing into his cheek.

_Awww, he cares about you. Isn’t that precious?_

Izaya hums in agreement, snuggling closer before his eyes snap open.

_Good morning, sunshine!_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everybody say thank to yu for looking shit over and basically making the story happen

Deep breath in.

It’s just the fever.

His knuckles are pale where they grip the sink, and some part of him is surprised the porcelain doesn’t crack under the strain.

It can happen sometimes, the brain’s wiring going all wonky from too much heat and stress, seeing things that aren’t there, hearing things. It can happen to perfectly healthy people.That’s all it is.

_Are you sure?_

Izaya squeezes his eyes shut.

Yes. Yes, of course it is.

For all his parent’s flaws, bad genetics have never been one of them, there’s no family history of major diseases or disorders. And he’s looked.

He ignores the part of him that reminds him that schizophrenia isn’t necessarily genetic. That perfectly normal families can have an odd one and he was kind of waiting for the little push that would send him teetering.

 _I’m offended that you think you’re capable of dreaming_ me _up._

But the voice doesn’t _sound_ offended. He sounds amused. Not that he cares what emotions his voices are having.

“You’re not _real.”_

 _Rude. I’m just as real as you._ There’s a heavy pause. _Perhaps even more so._

Which is supposed to mean…?

 _Really? Do you need a picture? I called you_ fake _. Faker than plastic, than dyed hair. Can’t be honest with yourself to save your life._

Is this supposed to be a sort of Jiminy Cricket consciousness? He doesn’t like it. Made it this far without it, certainly doesn’t need it now.

 _Again with the part-of-you theory._ There’s a considering pause. _Well, I suppose you’re not_ entirely _wrong. Here, look in the mirror._

Izaya’s gaze lifts from his hands without his permission, traveling across Shiki’s spotless mirrors to meet his own eyes.

Except, they’re not.

Instead, it’s large pools of white, tinged red, where his eyes should be, stretching far up to his temple. His skin is a dark, burnished red to suit, slick-looking in the light, not unlike blood. His teeth are as large as his pinky, pointed and crowding his mouth while his lips pull up in a garish sort of grin that stretches to his ears. And to top it all off, like the disgusting cherry on a shit sundae, a huge, long tongue that comes lolling out when he parts his lips. He reaches a hand up, and one in the mirror follows, skin red and slick and nails more like claws.

 _Beautiful, aren’t we?_ The voice says, crooning and silky. _Oh, do you not think so? Shame, seeing as we’ll be living together from now on._

A knock on the door. Shiki’s polite like that, respectful of boundaries.

“Izaya?”

Up to a point.

The door swings open and Shiki stumbles in, hair mussed from bed, dress shirt rumpled and feet bare. “Mornin’.”

_Isn’t he a looker? Punching above your weight, perhaps?_

“No.”

Shiki stops on the way to the toilet, lifts an eyebrow.

“More afternoon now, isn’t it?” Izaya says, casually leaning against the bathroom counter.

“Only if we’re counting ten am as noon.”

Izaya chances a look in the mirror as Shiki uses the toilet. Nothing strange. Skin pale as always. Maybe he just needs a break, to get out of this city for a little while. Maybe take Shiki with him, find a little cabin somewhere.

No. He knows what he saw, and something isn’t fitting. Gotta keep your wits sharp in this city.

“Ah, you just look so well-rested I thought it had to be late.”

Shiki gives him another Look as he pulls his pants back up. Now that Izaya’s looking for it, he can see the dark circles are darker and the lines around his eyes deeper.

_Ooh, misstep there, hot shot._

“I was looking after you, excuse me for not looking as fresh as I usually do.”

_Ouch. Someone’s sleeping on the couch for the foreseeable future._

Shiki washes his hands before laying one on Izaya’s forehead, and they’re cool as always. “You don’t feel as warm. I assume you’re feeling better?”

“Yes, I--” something grabs control of him, and Izaya reaches up to grab Shiki’s hand off his head, clasping it between his. “I’m feeling much better.” Izaya presses his captive hand to his lips. “And I have you to thank.”

Shiki doesn’t look even a little convinced, and a suspicious glimmer enters his eyes. Worse, his expression hardens ever-so-slightly around the jaw and his features smooth into blankness. He thinks Izaya’s mocking him.

“Is that so?”

_Fuck, fuck. He’s onto us!_

Izaya’s arms reach out and pull Shiki close. He’s still warm from sleep and bleary, and kind of pliant and comes easily without complaint or resistance.

It gives Izaya prime seats to watch in the mirror as his very own monstrously long, slick tongue glides up the side of Shiki’s face.

Oh hell. There’s no way that Shiki didn’t notice anything wrong with _that._ Apparently, he got saddled with the _stupid_ alien, because any _other_ would have known to do maybe _anything but that._

_I’ll have you know--_

But Shiki’s not tensing or pulling away in disgust or screaming. He can still save this. 

“What’s a few more minutes?” Izaya says, wrapping his arms around Shiki’s neck. Shiki braces his arms against the counter, but doesn’t pursue.

“It’s minutes I can’t spare.” Shiki turns his head, and his nose brushes Izaya’s cheek. “Besides, you were just sick. You should be taking it easy.”

_Translation: don’t get me sick, you germ infested meat sack._

“I trust you to take care of me,” Izaya says, then clicks his mouth shut.

Shiki’s eyebrows shoot up and for a moment he’s startled. Truly startled, his eyes wide and disbelieving and a little suspicious.

He looks like Izaya _feels._

 _Ooh boy, you all have_ so _many issues._

But a second is enough for Shiki to compose himself. “Perhaps I should take the day off, you’re—”

“No, no, I’m fine,” Izaya says, suddenly becoming very busy rearranging the bathroom countertop. Who knew it could be so disorganized, all Shiki’s toothpaste and, well, okay it’s mostly his things, but the point stands.

Shiki pauses again, clearly weighing the call of duty against Izaya acting like a total wack job, before deciding that it’s not worth it. Or that Aozaki getting his hands all over his business is not preferable if Izaya’s not actively dying.

“Alright,” Shiki says at last, heading back into the bedroom to pull on real pants and the rest of his scary bitch suit.. Izaya sulks over to the living room, trying to make himself scarce.

“I’m off,” Shiki calls a few moments later, fully dressed in his white suit.

“Bye, sweetheart,” Izaya calls before biting down on his tongue.

There’s another pause before the heavy door swings open. No way to tell what it meant, but it’s entirely possible that Shiki could consider it mockery. Shit.

As soon as the door closes behind Shiki, Izaya pulls out one of the laptops he has stowed away.

Well. Stowed might be the wrong word. But anyway, he’s using the laptop on the table in the living room.

 _I think we handled that pretty well,_ his new voice says pleasantly.

Like hell they did.

“Mind telling me who you are?” Izaya say just as pleasantly, logging into his email.

_Akabayashi. But that probably doesn’t help you much._

Red forest, huh? He’s right, not very helpful.

But that little stunt in the bathroom mirror _was._ Probably wasn’t intended to be, but it tickles a memory of leaked files of a certain “super classified” project.

Namie _should_ be in by now. The problem with keeping primarily paper files is that while they’re not accessible to others whenever _they_ want, they’re not exactly accessible to him, either. It didn’t used to be as much of a problem, but that was before he started staying at Shiki’s place instead of his much closer apartment.

He sends her a quick email to scan him everything she can about the Superman Project. Depending on her mood, she might even do it before the end of the day, in that sort of malicious compliance she has.

_The Superman Project, eh? I could tell you a thing or two about that._

“So I am right. You are an alien.”

The brief glow of satisfaction of being right is severely undercut with the knowledge that he’s playing host to an alien. That, if he remembers right, kills most of its hosts. Not intentionally, but dead is dead is dead.

_That’s right bucko. It’s you and me to the end of the line. Whatever that may be._

 

In about a half hour, Izaya decides Namie is taking too damn long to respond to his email, her sense of pride preventing her from the instantaneous reply that he really, really needs.

Besides, it’s better if he does it. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for, but he’s sure he’ll find it.

 _I told you, we’re stuck. Forever._ Akabayashi sounds bored. _Or at least, your forever._

That doesn’t sound right. If Akabayashi is really coiled that tight around him, really that entirely dependent on him, then he should die when Izaya does, right? If they’re _that_ enmeshed.

 _It doesn’t work like that,_ Akabayashi says, and is it his imagination, or is Akabayashi sounding a bit nervous?

_No. It’s all in your head. Hehe. Get it? Cause I’m in your head and— you get it._

He’s got his clothes mixed in with Shiki’s in the dresser, because Shiki’s bedroom isn’t really big enough for two dressers and Shiki mostly uses the closet, anyway, because he cares about his things being wrinkle-free. It’s a veritable forest of white suits in there, carefully hung and pressed within an inch of their life. Izaya didn’t know white could have so many shades until he opened that door. He’s still a little in awe. 

It’s mostly just Shiki’s casual clothes that live in the drawers, his jeans and t-shirts that rarely ever seen the sun. Izaya’s clothes are folded neatly next to his, Shiki’s handiwork. There are cleaning ladies that parade through once a week, the same ones on call for dead bodies, coincidentally, but Shiki insists on doing the laundry himself.

 _That’s adorable. He takes_ such _good care of you._

He doesn’t. He doesn’t need to. Izaya takes care of himself.

_Sure, buddy. Whatever gets you through the night._

Stupid alien doesn’t know shit. Waltzes in, uses Izaya’s body as he pleases, makes judgements not knowing anything about anything. Not even _helpful._

 _Don’t forget to grab your keys,_ Akabayashi says, cheerfully as Izaya tries to stomp out through the door. Stupid alien.

 

It’s better this time. The smells. It’s not so overwhelming. It’s still much, much more than it used to be, much more than he wants it to be, but it’s tolerable.

_You're welcome._

Izaya ignores him, setting out for the subway station.

 _You should walk,_ Akabayashi says.

Oh, sure. He’ll get right on that. Not like it’s a couple of miles to his office, or anything. Not like he really has anything better to do with his time, really. Not like he doesn’t charge in the _thousands_ for his time.

_No, you’ll like this, trust me._

Izaya’s legs walk him past the subway station, and really, they’re going to have to talk about this if they’re going to keep cohabiting. It’s his body first of all, he’s grown it himself. Not sure he’s thrilled about the freeloader that doesn’t even pay rent.

_Trust me. This is better than rent._

His legs walk him into the alley at the side of the subway station. He pauses for a moment. Then, his legs tense, shooting him into the side of the wall, before catching it with his feet and launching himself onto the roof parallel. There’s a sense of vertigo, not unlike being on a rollercoaster, heightened by being a passenger in his own body.

Akabayashi pauses at the top of the subway station building. Great, now he can _finally_ do the parkour he’s been training his body to do since middle school. Truly, this is a great benefit and worth hosting another organism for.

There’s a moment of silence.

_I see. Well, could you do this before?_

And Izaya’s moving again, faster this time, leaping from that ledge, pushing off of that wall. There’s such strength in his movements that walls crack under his feet, that he leaps impossible distances. It’s disorienting to be a passenger in his own body, worse to know his own limits and have them ignored and surpassed one by one.

One grab around a drain pipe has him wincing, waiting for the hot pain of a cut across his hand and the hot-dull pain of a broken finger. But it doesn’t come.

Another landing has him expecting his ankle to snap, bent as it is just the tiniest bit too far. But it doesn’t, and he’s left as an unhappy bystander, able to feel the sensations he knows should lead to pain, and unable to flinch away from them.

It’s torture, of a sort, and though he’s not exactly thrilled to find that he can apparently now scale glass vertically, he is happy when Akabayashi stops them at the top of one of the tallest building around Shiki’s apartment. The view is spectacular, sure, but not any better than the view off of Shiki’s building. Maybe even a slightest bit worse. The _wind_ is worse, that’s for sure, picking at the edges of Izaya’s hair and clothes, trying its best to throw him off the edge.

 _We’re not here for the view,_ Akabayashi says, and Izaya’s legs walk him forward to the edge of the building.

The point was to prove he’s stronger, wasn’t it? To prove that he can do things now that he couldn’t before?

Proven. Message received, thanks.

His feet walk closer to the edge and the wind tugs at him and he teeters dangerously.

“No,” Izaya says, and reaches deep inside, sinking deep into himself,and wrenches control of his body back.

 _Come on,_ Akabayashi says, _think of it as a trust fall._

He’ll die.

_I’ll fix you._

It makes him wonder what would happen if his brain went offline, if his spine cracked and took him with it.

 _Nothing,_ Akabayashi says, petulant as Izaya looks for a door. _I wouldn’t let it._

Sure, that sounds reassuring. Because there’s no way Akabayashi doesn’t have ulterior motives.

_I don’t! I’m super trustworthy! It’s my defining character trait._

He finds a door, and then accidentally rips it from its hinges.

Well.

That’s gonna be hard to get used to.

 

The subway is much better than it was only yesterday. Not that it smells any better, he can still smell the years of piss and sweat and _human,_ and he can still smell that each and everyone is made of meat.

And he could eat them, if he wanted. He even knows that they’d taste delicious and would be satisfying all day, and the slowly gnawing hunger would subside for a minute, allow him to _think._

No, that’s a dangerous path to start down.

_It’s something to consider._

No, it’s really not. Humans are more interesting in what they do than how they taste.

_That’s because you haven’t eaten one. Or talked to one recently, not counting that delicious hunk of man-meat you live with. Pun intended._

And they’re going to keep it that way. Ground rules. They’re going to have to have some if they’re going to be sharing his body. Unless there’s a way to _separate—_

_Nope, sorry. To death do us part, snookums._

And why should he trust the freeloader? It’s not like he’s got no ulterior motives. Like snapping his spine, maybe a few vital parts of the brain. Taking him offline so the meat sack was his to run with.

_I told you I wouldn’t._

Izaya sends him the feeling of Shiki’s raised eyebrow.

_Okay, maybe I did try. Can you blame me?_

Of course he can _blame him,_ it’s not Izaya’s problem that he needs a damn host. Besides, he was here first. Build this life. It’s _his,_ some alien can’t just waltz in and grab it because _boo-hoo, I need a body._

 _You make a compelling argument,_ Akabayashi says dryly. _And you just missed your stop._

Fuck.

 

His office is empty when he rolls in the front door.

Not terribly surprising, Namie doesn’t tend to come in when she’s certain he’s not going to come into check. And she’s uncannily accurate. Also unsurprisingly, she’s let her time clock run for the past three days, letting herself rack up unwarranted cash. Izaya takes it upon himself to clock her out, and makes a mental note to consider her trickery later. Her rate is exorbitant and he doesn’t really want to pay for time she was at home pining for Seiji, but on the other hand: _fuck the system!_

Maybe just not _his_ system.

Maybe he won’t pay her for that three-day span. She’ll bitch and moan, she always does, but that’s what you get when you try and trick the trickster.

He ignores the parasite that tells him: _you wouldn’t have ever known if you hadn’t stopped in to check in on what you know about me. Really, you should be thanking me,_ and makes his way over to his wall of files.

Digital files are all well and good, easy to find and accessible from everywhere, but they’re so liable to being stolen, and you wouldn’t even know it.

But paper. Paper leaves a trail.

His wall of files appears generally untouched, Namie hasn’t been at it again in an unnecessary and irritating quest to ‘organize.’

Let’s see. Symbiote would be in the red folder, he thinks. Even if he didn’t know that’s what it was called when he made it. He’s not even sure that’s what it’s really called _now,_ it’s just so damn catchy.

 _That’s quite a thick folder you got there,_ Akabayashi says, and Izaya likes to think it’s not his imagination that makes him sound a trite nervous.

Oh, thought he was a mystery, did he?

Hardly. Symbiotes have been documented since the beginning of time. Longer, even.

 _Demon possessions?_ Akabayashi says, sounding a trite skeptical, as Izaya flips the folder open.

And warriors with ridiculous strength and endurance, killed in the most ridiculous of ways. Achilles, strong as a thousand men. Cu Chulainn, known for his incredible strength, prowess in battle, and the ability to put his insides on the outside. 

_Ah-hah,_ Akabayashi says, sounding far more smug that he really should. _So that’s why._

For immortality? It was a bad idea from the start. Every noted case of symbiote ends in death, not immortality. And now, he’s got an entire case file of humans that even modern medicine couldn’t save.

_No, dimwit. For that blond monster we ran into the other day. Remember, tried to attack on sight, I gave you some amazing strength and parkour abilities to escape._

Ah, yes. Shizu-chan. He supposes that he once fell down the deep, dark void of trying to figure out what the hell made him so inhumanly powerful. But only to see how it might be taken away, defeated, if one might be so bold. It’s been a long time since he’s thought about it, made the connection between symbiotes and demon possession. Not that he’s saying demon possession is entirely off the table, can’t say that in a city like this.

He grabs the files on Sakuma’s Superman Project and starts there, grabbing a cup of tea, and settles into one of the chairs.

He considers sending out a request for more information, sending the hounds to find if Sakuma’s in a panic, missing an alien and all, but decides that that sort of information will trickle down if it happens, it’s not the sort of thing that can stay quiet for long.

And at first glance, the Superman Project is ludicrous, and it’s little wonder Sakuma is the laughing stock of the industry.

At second glance, it’s legitimately dangerous, with a one-hundred and ten percent mortality rate. No matter the diet, blood type, oxygen concentration, mental state. No matter the care. No matter the treatment.

Hell, even the aliens have had a mortality rate of seventy five percent, they’re down to just one—

Oh hell.

Namie is never this late. Not really. She likes to pretend that she never comes in, but the horrible reality is that he does see her almost every day.

There’s no sign of disarray, it was a clean job. Or she just walked out with them. And she might have, if he knows anything.

But it’s nothing a quick check of the security tapes can’t answer. The largest problem he’s found with security tapes is that they never just cut to the time when something interesting happens. Oh, sure, he’s positive that if he asks Tsukumoya he’d probably get an answer mixed in among the insults to his intelligence, but he’s really not in the mood.

_Who’s Tsukumoya?_

Izaya ignores Akabayashi.

_Fine then._

There’s the sudden feeling of having a rusty file drawer yanked open, a slight headache forming at his temples that disappears when Akabayashi crows _Aha!_

So, great, he can do that.

It’s around hour twelve, yesterday, that a squad of goons politely knock on the door. Namie goes to answer it and—

Honestly, he rather expected more of Namie. They grab her, and she nails one in the crotch, but that seems to be all she’s got before she leaves with them, docile as a kitten.

Disappointing.

Anyway, he should probably not stick around, lest they discover that they haven’t actually grabbed the real info-broker. And he might have to do something about that, hard to move and collect information freely when there’s a bounty on your ass. Hey, but that’s what Nakura’s for, ne? A little kidnapping, a few tests, they’ll see that he’s not playing host to a symbiote. Maybe they’ll let him go, maybe they’ll kill him. It’s all fine.

He gets the impression of laughter echoing around the room.

 _You’re a callous one,_ Akabayashi says gleefully, _no, wait. Or maybe you’re not. What’d this one do to you? Steal your lunch money as a kid?_

There’s the overwhelming feeling of being rummaged through, like he’s nothing more than a bin of trash, things being thrown every which way while Akabayashi digs for the one tasty morsel.

He feels helpless in his own head.

Except, he shouldn’t be.

He imagines throwing up steel walls, imagines quarantine a red mass, pulsating and strange. And for a moment, he can almost see it. He sees himself as something gray, almost silver, that glimmers in a dim light. He sees Akabayashi, red and mostly separate, but worst of all, he can see where they blend together, red shooting through his silver.

He opens his eyes and the image is gone.

 _I’m impressed,_ Akabayashi says, as Izaya digs around for a backpack. He’s sure he has one, maybe an old one from his student days. _Most don’t have that sort of bodily control._

He digs an ancient backpack out of a closet and slides all files in, grabbing the one he has on Sakuma’s corporation while he’s at it.

They almost don’t fit there’s so many of them, but Akabayashi lends a helpful tentacle he doesn’t want to think about the origins of, and he manages to zipper it and sling it across his back without falling over

_You’re welcome._

 

Shiki isn’t back when he opens the door, but he didn’t expect him to be, it’s early yet.

_Interesting that you come back here._

Where else would he go?

Izaya has sudden images of mostly empty apartments, views as disparate as can be.

_Any one of twelve others, it looks like._

Well, there’s no food there. They’re not stocked at all, unlike here. Here the refrigerator door swings open to reveal all sorts of food, including what seems to be thin slices of raw meat in the corner.

Shiki’s so thoughtful.

_Why do you call him that?_

Shiki? By his name? What else would he call him? _Snookums?_ Yeah, that’d end well.

_What about Haruya?_

Because he doesn’t, okay?

There’s the feeling of rummaging again, and Izaya tries to slam up his steel walls again, but Akabayashi punches through with ease, and snatches a memory in his claws.

_The restaurant is beautiful, all Old World European charm with crisp white tablecloths and dripping chandeliers and tactfully dressed waiters._

_It was January, and the big windows that made up three of the walls of the restaurant were lashed with rain. But it only served to make the candle lit tables seem that much cozier, that much more intimate._

_On their table, the candlelight holds steady. In it, Shiki seems warmer, his eyes dance with reflected light, and the bags under his eyes have disappeared and the crow’s feet are minimized and he looks almost his age, for once._

No. Stop, that’s _private._

 _But it’s for business. Or at least, that’s what Shiki_ said. _Appetizers have come and gone, and he’s halfway through the main course when the dawning realization that they haven’t talked about business once comes crashing back to the fore after buzzing around the back of his mind like a particularly annoying fly._

_Or perhaps Shiki’s waiting to the very end to discuss business like a gentleman. Or something like a gentleman, he’s not sure Shiki qualifies._

_Shiki’s talking about a book he’s read recently, something that started out fine and turned to drivel, and isn’t that just a metaphor for life and everything in it?_

_This doesn’t feel like a business meeting. It feels like a date and if that’s the way that Shiki wants to play it, wants to make Izaya squirm, he can play along too._

_“Is this your attempt to woo me?” Izaya says, peering through his eyelashes, playing with a spoon. He likes the way the metal warps his reflection, turning him upside down and sideways. He thinks it’s a lot like life and it’s perceptions, always warped, no matter how clean you think what you’re looking through is._

_“Depends,” Shiki says, and his eyes dance with a more playful light, “is it working?”_

_Izaya puts a finger to his lips, pretending to consider. “I don’t know. I expected a bit more bloodshed, a bit more mayhem.” And really, it’s more the thought that he could be wooed like a girl that makes laughter bubble up in his stomach and tickle his throat, but it’s an attempt. Or maybe it’s not._

_Shiki picks up the wine and swirls it around his glass and looks him in the eye and says: “I’ll keep that in mind for next time.”_

_And he does._

_This time the restaurant isn’t as prim-proper as the last and they have proper chopsticks instead of forks and knives and spoons, but it’s still terribly posh and expensive. But the atmosphere is different, heavier, like they’re waiting for a storm to break._

_It largely stems from a table in the middle of the room. It’s a large table, consisting of more tables pushed together, and the men sitting at it were laughing and joking, but there was a sharp divide in the table. Both halves of it was trying desperately to pretend that the other half didn’t exist._

_“Did you intentionally choose the night one of the bloodiest yakuza rivalries would try and be laid to rest, or was it just a lucky coincidence?”_

_“Lucky,” Shiki repeats, playing with his water glass. “Most wouldn’t consider that lucky. But you did ask for blood and mayhem.”_

Stop. Get out of his damn head. You can’t have everything.

_Izaya puts on his sweetest smile. “You’re doing such a good job taking care of me, Ha-ru-ya.”_

_Shiki blinks, like he’s having trouble comprehending, and Izaya’s miscalculated, he’s taken this too far._

Stop.

 _He thought he’d known the game they were playing. He was wrong. Shiki’s smirk does something strange, it goes stiff,_ he _goes stiff and his eyes go shuttered._

_It’s over in a half-second, and Shiki takes a sip of his water, but Izaya can tell something’s changed, he’s made a wrong move in this dance they were playing._

He hears laughter. It’s bouncing around the walls, from every corner, unerringly emanating from _everywhere._ It takes him a lot longer than it should to come to the realization that it’s _in_ ternal.

 _You can’t call your long-term, serious boyfriend by his first name because he was_ surprised _the first time you did it?_ The laughter dissolves into wheezing. Izaya pulls his phone out and doesn’t question why he’s wheezing without lungs. _You need serious help._

He really doesn’t. He’s managing perfectly adequately. Like right now? Right now he’s texting Nakura to be in perfect grabbing range of Sakuma Corp to take a target off of his ass, and by extension, Shiki’s. He’s an excellent boyfriend.

 

Shiki comes home around nine, and promptly plops himself on the couch to do more work.

“I thought you had a strict no-work-at home policy,” Izaya says, lying stretched out on his back.

“Mikiya—” Shiki rubs his eyes, and Izaya tries to pretend he’s not terribly interested, “never mind what Mikiya did.”

“Oh come now, you can tell me.”

“No, I can’t,” Shiki says flatly.

“You’re so cruel.”

“Terribly.”

Izaya continues to watch Shiki from where he’s relaxing. Shiki’s intent on his work, his brow furrowed, growing just the tiniest bit. His sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, and he’s squinting in a way that makes Izaya think he’ll need glasses in the next few years.

The image is sudden, violent almost. It’s Shiki, and his face is scrunched, but his mouth is open ever so slightly, panting. Tattoos dance as the muscles underneath tense against the pale hands keeping him down. Shiki lets out a broken little moan and—

Izaya shakes himself out of it. So he can’t be content with his body, has to lust after his boyfriend too. Anything else he want to nab while he’s at it? His family is right up for grabs, if he so desires.

_Well, if you ain’t gonna treat him right, someone ought to._

Treat him right? Shiki doesn’t like to lose control for a _second_. That’s not treating him right. Treating him right is surrendering complete control and trusting him to do with it what he will.

_So you do have some self-awareness. I was wondering._

He did manage to capture Shiki in the first place, after all. He couldn’t have done it without some sort of understanding.

Shiki stands up, rubbing at his eyes. “I’m getting some coffee, you want anything?”

_Apparently not as well as you thought._

“Izaya?”

Of course he knows Shiki. They’ve been dating for what, a year now? He wouldn’t. He would never.

“Whatever.”

_Then let me show you._

Izaya watches himself come closer to Shiki, who raises an eyebrow. “Changed your mind about that coffee?”

He watches as Shiki backs up against the wall. They’re never quite eye-to-eye, even with Shiki’s perpetual slouch, and Shiki’s back straightens with a sharp _pop,_ making him even taller.

Izaya comes closer and closer, until they’re all but breathing the same air. Shiki’s eyebrow quirks up in a silent inquiry, but he doesn’t seem _uncomfortable._

 _Told you,_ Akabayashi taunts, and Izaya can feel his cheeks stretch into a smirk.

Then Akabayashi _pounces,_ there’s no other word for it.

Shiki’s not really into kissing. Izaya could at least pick that much up over the course of a year, he suspects it’s something about the bacteria, about the saliva itself.

But he seems fine with this. He seems content, more than content with having Izaya’s tongue in his mouth. He’s moaning and kissing back, and using his hands to pull Izaya closer. That is, until Akabayashi grabs Shiki by the wrists, pinning him to the wall.

Izaya doesn’t know how to feel. On one hand, there’s heat pooling in his stomach, there’s electricity in his spine, there’s promise in the air.

On the other, he’s a voyeur in his own body. The whimpers that Shiki’s making aren’t his, the way he’s testing Izaya’s grip, finding it secure isn’t his strength. Not the way Shiki’s throat works as Izaya bites down it, not the way Shiki’s shaking ever so slightly.

None of it.

Izaya’s body presses against Shiki from knee to shoulder, pushing him further into the wall. And if Izaya’s on tip-toes, then Shiki never needs to know.

“What’s gotten into you?” Shiki gasps, and his voice isn’t quite steady.

“You, in a second,” Izaya’s voice says, lower than Izaya’s ever heard it. “Oh, are you disappointed? Well, I’m sure I could find it in me to fuck _you_.” Shiki shivers. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“I’m sure I could find it in me,” Shiki says, and there’s a bit of a smirk in his voice.

“Snarky, are we,” Akabayashi says, “careful, I might take offense. I might make you beg to make it up to me.”

Shiki presses his hips against Izaya’s. “Why should I beg when I don’t know if it’s worth it?”

_Oh, I like him._

“Then let me show you.”

Akabayashi pulls Shiki from the wall and shoves him onto the couch he used to be working on, in a graceful maneuver that Izaya would never be able to replicate, clamoring on top as soon as Shiki’s horizontal. He tears at Shiki’s clothes, nipping and biting at every inch of exposed skin, until—

“Everything alright up there?” Shiki says, managing to look smug even when he’s half-naked and covered with love bites.

But Akabayashi’s too busy tracing over the tattoos on Shiki’s shoulder to respond.

_He’s so pretty. I want these. Izaya, you should get these._

So Izaya wrests back control of his body and picks up Shiki’s hand, slipping a finger into his mouth like Shiki’s done for him a thousand and one times. Shiki’s eyes don’t leave his mouth, just go dark and kind of hungry. It’s easy to see why Shiki likes this, even before taking his quirks and neuroses into account. The absolute power of it is heady and intoxicating, having that much power over someone else is electrifying, and if he were any different of a person, it might even be addicting.

Akabayashi yanks back control and Shiki’s fingers fall from his mouth. They go for Shiki’s neck in some sort of hazy agreement, biting and licking down until they hit a waist band.

 _Rip it,_ Akabayashi advises as Izaya tries to get his thick fingers to obey him long enough to undo a belt buckle.

He can’t. Shiki would _know._

_Is that such a bad thing?_

That’s an excellent question. But he’s finally managed to pop the buckle and he doesn’t have time for it because there’s more Shiki on display and he has the impending feeling that if he loses any momentum he’ll fall off and crash.

“We should take this to the bedroom,” Shiki says, and his voice is low and deep in that way it sometimes gets that makes Izaya’s guts wobble and he’s pushing himself up onto his hands, and he’s got this lazy sort of smirk on.

“Now why’s that?”

“Because we used all the lube out here last week.” Shiki’s eyebrow pops up again. “Unless, of course, that wasn’t your intention—”

“Come on then,” Izaya says, clambering off. “Can’t be up too much longer, it’s almost your bedtime.”

Shiki scoffs, but follows him off the couch, reaching for Izaya’s clothes. Oops. He kinda forgot about those.

But Shiki makes sure he loses them by the time they reach the bed, and he kind of forgot the extent of Shiki’s tattoos, that they extend from his shoulders to mid-thigh. He kind of forgot the vivid colors of them, and that among the flowers, there’s a skull sitting above Shiki’s right hip, vines spilling out of the sockets. Then Shiki rolls onto his back, and these are the ones he’s more familiar with, the ones that he’s panted into on more than one occasion.

“You and your missionary position,” Shiki sighs, but lets Izaya settle between his thighs.

“You like it,” Izaya says, because it’s true. Maybe not initially, but he can see it in Shiki’s eyes now, he likes watching.

“Do I?”

“Let me rephrase: you’re going to like it,” Akabayashi says, and it feels wrong on Izaya’s tongue, but Shiki doesn’t seem to mind. Even looks faintly amused.

“That remains to be seen,” Shiki says, folding his arms behind his head as Izaya begins to work his way around the lube bottle. “Ya know, this is kind of satisfying, watching someone else cater to your pleasure. I see why you prefer it.”

“It’s a lifestyle,” Izaya says, as he works slick fingers.

“What, pillow princess? A lifestyle? Well, actually, now that you mention it, I can see it.”

“Would I lie to you?” Izaya says, sliding slowly in. He’s able to loom over Shiki now, isn’t that fun? Shiki’s hands come out from behind his head to play, but Akabayashi pins them above his head.

“Do I have to answer that?”

Shiki tests the hold on his hands, but it’s not going anywhere.

_Can you smell that? That’s a pretty strong whiff of arousal, baby._

He’s pretty sure humans aren’t equipped to smell that sort of thing.

_Boy, you have no idea what you’re equipped to do, you’re just learning. Now, fuck your man._

And Izaya does just that.

Shiki’s always quiet during sex, when he can help it. It’s odd and intense, and recently he’s learned to seem to want to devour any noise Izaya makes, and Izaya’s never minded, not really.

But tonight Shiki seems to have left that behind. He’s all hitched gasps and short moans, like he can’t help himself but really wants to be entirely silent and isn’t that just like him? Akabayashi wants to lean down and eat each half-voiced moan before it can escape, but Izaya tamps down on it.

And when they’re done, Shiki curls up on his side, and lets Izaya sling an arm over his waist, even going so far as to press back into Izaya’s chest. It’s a victory on all counts—Shiki would rather start cutting off fingers than admit he likes to cuddle. There’s something like satisfaction curled into Izaya’s chest, but it’s competing for space with something like disquiet.

 

He wakes up the next morning with Shiki drooling contentedly against his shoulder and a numb arm and the immediate and pressing urge to pee.

He slides carefully out, Shiki is the lightest of light sleepers, pretty much on a hairpin trigger but he manages to get out with some measure of grace and makes his way to the bathroom.

And promptly forgets about having to pee.

There’s a rash spreading across his chest, down across his shoulders, and it seems to grow as he watches, spreading slowly and ominously across his skin.

No. Izaya peers more closely in the mirror. No, not a rash, unless rashes develop in patterns. As he looks, the designs seem to become more defined, darker, such a dark red it’s almost black. Actually, now that he thinks about it, they look kind of like Shiki’s tattoos—

No.

 _Oh, come on,_ Akabayashi whines, and the designs curl down his side. _They’re so cool! Make you look badass. Make Shiki want that. Make all the boys come to your yard._

Shiki already wants that, thank you very much.

_Yeah, you’re welcome._

He’s not going to sink to the level of bragging about his sex life to a parasite. He’s really not.

_What sex life?_

Okay, yes he is.

 _Oh, you mean that adorable thing you had going with the ropes and shit. Yeah, that’s not gonna work so well now. Unless you wanna upgrade to steel chains, which is_ much _kinkier if you ask me. Kinda ruins the aesthetic of it, though._

It’s not _loss_ that pangs through his stomach, it’s indigestion, is all. Because he woke up hungry. Starving hungry. He could eat a bear with nothing but his hands, hungry.

 _Yeah, better get cracking on that,_ Akabayashi says cheerfully, _your liver’s looking mighty tasty._

He can’t eat that. Izaya’s no expert in human biology per se, but he’s pretty sure it’s one of the more vital organs.

_It’ll grow back. Mostly._

Right. Food.

Shiki’s awake and working on his morning ritual when he walks back through the room, and Izaya leaves him to it. Not that it’s not fascinating to watch, he’s pretty sure he’s never seen anyone go through the five stages of grief so quickly or so smoothly every morning, but Shiki manages it if not with grace, than with poise.

But food.

The fridge is as wonderfully and gloriously stocked as always, brimming with the freshest and finest selections of vegetables and fruit that city living has to offer.

He eats a box of frozen waffles that he got as a joke once and chases it down with one of those single-serve frozen enchiladas before eyeing up some of the instant ramen cringing in a corner of Shiki’s cabinet.

“Eating healthy today, I see,” Shiki says, already holding a coffee cup out, body hunching around it like he’s trying to shield it from the evils of the world.

“More healthy than your morning cigarette.” Izaya points at the empty enchilada box. “It has twenty nine grams of protein.”

“Oh, silly me, I stand corrected. What a wise choice to start your day. I’m sure frozen waffles is the premium fuel that keeps your body function at peak performance.” Shiki measures his coffee grounds into his ancient coffee machine. Izaya thinks it might be as old as him, but at this point he’s too afraid to ask. He’s tried to get Shiki to convert to one of those single serve ones, so he can always have a cup of hot, fresh coffee whenever he wants instead of slurping at the remnants of coffee long-past, but Shiki’s been surprisingly resistant, claiming that his is the only one that makes the coffee taste right. Izaya had a nightmare once that it was the souls of the coffee beans trapped in it that gave it the flavor. To this day, it still seems to gleam with a dull, malicious intent.

“Again, your morning cigarette offers you what?”

“Solace.”

“Maybe try carbs,” Izaya says, “it might make you less cranky. Might even give you energy. Real, sustainable energy. Like it does with every single other human. Can you imagine?”

“No. It’d ruin my image.”

_This looks like a losing battle kid, I’d give it up._

“Well. We can’t have that.”

Shiki’s eyes are lazy narrow slits, not unlike a cat, as he leans against the counter near his coffee pot, waiting for it to finish percolating. “Indeed. You’re in a good mood this morning.”

“I could say the same for you.”

_You really couldn’t._

“Is that right?” Shiki’s coffee finishes and he pours it into his waiting cup with a smooth, practiced motion, raising an eyebrow with so much sarcasm it almost matches the tone of his voice.

“Yes,” Izaya says cheerfully, but comes over to invade Shiki’s space. “Have a good night last night?”

There comes the vague sensation of rummaging around and Akabayashi emerges. _Holy shit. This_ is _a good morning for him._

“It was adequate,” Shiki says, and he meets Izaya’s eyes like it was some sort of challenge.

 _Adequate?_ Akabayashi howls. _Adequate my ass! He was panting and moaning—_

 _“_ Ah, well they do say that practice makes perfect.”

“Is that an excuse or an invitation?”

“Why not both?”

“Bold of you.” Shiki takes a last, fortifying swig of coffee, and Izaya turns around to put his waffles in the toaster and all is normal and well and—

_Bold of us my ass—_

What is that _sound?_ It sounds wet and slick and—

The first surprise is that apparently Akabayashi can send himself out in fun little tendrils, one completely with a head sporting the face he found in the mirror.

The second is that Akabayashi sees fit to use it to stick his tongue all the way down Shiki’s throat.

And Shiki doesn’t seem the least bit concerned or surprised, instead submitting to a disembodied head and tentacles with a sort of tired grace.

“What,” Izaya says, “the hell.”


End file.
